Magnum Opus
by TheNewIdea
Summary: Everything is connected, time and space intertwine with each other. Spanning centuries, it is a story of life and how to live it well but also about loss and we do in order find ourselves. The life of Basil of Baker Street is a successful but lonely one, Remy's life has taken a turn for the better and Pete searches for everything that he's ever wanted.
1. The Richest Mouse in the World

Based on Cloud Atlas, both the film and book

The Richest Mouse in the World

It was the morning of April 7th. The birds were chirping their mating calls and singing the sweet songs of spring, the people in the Mouse Kingdom of Britain were out and about, generally enjoying themselves and otherwise making merriment.

On the homely little street of Baker Street sat the apartment of 22B, right below the famous 21B Baker Street in which lived the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, lived a mouse whose name was Basil, but you might know him as the Great Mouse Detective. Either way this is not his story.

Basil was sitting in his bathtub feeling particularly happy this morning. He was happy for many reasons, for one thing Basil was naked and simply detested clothes, him being a mouse Basil found the whole "clothes" thing to be something of a ludicrous idea for mice to conform to human ideas and thinking. That isn't to say that he was uncivilized, he very much was, he just preferred to breathe and clothes seemed to get in the way of that.

Another reason that Basil was happy was because today was his birthday. One his birthday, Basil rationalized that one could do whatever it is that they wanted and today Basil had the strangest urge to go boating in the Thames. But since he couldn't go boating in the Thames, for Basil unfortunately happened to also be sick on this day, Basil did the next best thing and took a bath.

A knock at the door caused Basil to look up from the water towards the door. At first Basil thought he was hearing things. The knocking became persistent.

"Yes yes" Basil exclaimed as he got out and shook himself off, "A moment, a moment!"

Basil walked out of the room and headed towards the door.

Standing at the door was a somewhat portly mouse with a grey mustache wearing a blue business casual suit and a derby. The mouse was holding a cane in his right hand; Basil noticed that the cane was made of Afghan wood, which told him that the mouse served in the war. The pocket watch that was tucked in the pocket of the jacket was golden; Basil knew this because of the chain, which was lazily hanging about as if it had nothing better to do. The mouse also had a newspaper in his hand; it was Sunday's latest issue. The mouse stared at Basil, slightly appalled and looked around the room from the doorway as if he had a feeling he wasn't supposed to be there or was interrupting some grand ritual that Basil was partaking in.

"I'm sorry" the mouse said as he turned back to Basil, trying his best not to look at anything, particularly Basil's lower half, "I must be at the wrong place. Can you tell me where Basil of Baker Street is?"

Basil smiled warmly and stretched out his arms to its full length as if to say, you found me. Basil then laughed heartedly and followed this gesture with a remark.

"You found him sir" he exclaimed, "For I am Basil. But not of Baker Street."

The mouse rolled his eyes annoyingly, "Then you are not the Basil I am looking for" he replied.

"Ah I see" Basil continued, "You mistake me good fellow. For I am Basil and I do live on Baker Street. So technically I am Basil _of Baker Street_ as you so put it, I just prefer to be called Basil. This isn't the 1830's after all. We are all civilized good English mice."

Basil pointed to a portrait of a large black rat on the wall that was dressed like a noblemen.

"Now that devious character, Rattigan" Basil continued, "He was someone that you wouldn't want to cross even in the daylight, for he was just as sinister as he would be at night."

"Was?" the mouse asked, curiosity setting in and replacing his uncomfortableness for the time being.

"Yes" Basil answered, "Rattigan died some time ago. You know how things go- Bad guy has an evil plan, you foil the plan. Work your way through a trap or two and eventually you end up at a clock tower where you throw the bastard off the edge to his demise."

The mouse shook his head, not wanting to know anything more in the way of details and was more curious as to why Basil wasn't wearing anything in the way of clothes. Basil noticed that the mouse was staring and he immediately gave an explanation that he had memorized by heart.

"Don't believe in clothes" Basil declared

"But its part of society Basil" the mouse answered

"Who said I had to be part of society?" Basil asked

"I believe your mother and father did when they had you" the mouse replied sternly, "No one likes wearing clothes but we do it anyway."

Basil shook his head annoyingly, "We're mice, not men!" he exclaimed, "I'd much rather live the way our ancestors did they conform to humanistic ideals."

The conversation was getting uncomfortable, not because of what the conversation was about but because Basil didn't get the mouse's name of which he was in the current company of.

"I'm sorry" Basil said laughing a bit as he did so, "But I don't believe I got your name Doctor."

The mouse was puzzled as to how Basil knew he was a doctor, but for the sake of Basil, he answered him.

"Dawson. John Dawson."

Basil extended his paw welcomingly which Dawson took, with his other paw Basil wrenched Dawson's stick from Dawson's paws and examined it.

"Afghan wood" Basil said impressed, "So I take it you served?"

Dawson's face grew from one of disgust to one of curiosity.

"Three years" Dawson answered confused out of his mind as to what to make of Basil, who in turn examined him further.

"You're an educated mouse, Oxford or Cambridge?"

Dawson was thankful that Basil was wrong on both accounts for Dawson had no official schooling in medicine and only minimal knowledge of first aid and war techniques which was enough at the time to give him the title of doctor. Dawson remained silent; Basil stared at him inquisitively for several seconds before he dropped the subject. Basil motioned for Dawson to enter the room, he remained where he was.

Basil nodded in understanding and finally relented and threw on his robe, the only article of clothing that he could stand wearing. Dawson huffed and shook his head.

"You're a sad, strange mouse indeed Basil" Dawson replied as he turned around

"Would you like some tea?" Basil asked hopefully for he hadn't had company in a long time and was already coming to like the doctor even though he had just met.

"No thanks" Dawson answered as he made his way down the stairs, "I've already had lunch, Oh and happy birthday by the way."

Basil never mentioned anything about it being his birthday. This caused Basil to laugh his head off, delighted in the fact that he had just been denied and beaten at his own game in the same statement, something that Basil needed two sentences to perform.

_"Note to self"_ Basil thought, _"Less talking and more observation get more results. Attempt to wear clothes more often."_

Basil laughed again and gently closed the door.

Basil walked back into the bathroom, took off his robe and once again entered the tub. The water was warm, the soap having diluted but he didn't really care at this point and just wanted to sit in the water. The mouse closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered something that he hadn't thought about for a long time.

Her name was Emily and she was Basil's whole world. Everything that he did, he did in her name. It was the best kind of love, the eternal kind. Basil spent almost a year in her company, during that time he had learned many things but the most important thing was learning how to love. Basil was known to be cold, dismissive, abrasive, rude, egotistical, and generally a jackass to every person that he ever came in contact with. When he met Emily everything changed, he became warm, fun loving, open and his heart began reaching out to people in ways that he never knew possible.

Basil remembered the exact day he had proposed to her, he remembered what time it was, he remembered where he was and what the weather was like. Basil remembered that Emily wore a yellow dress and he a dashing brown suit, he remembered that he felt itchy and extremely nervous. He remembered what he was feeling, what he was thinking. The only thing that Basil wished he didn't remember was Emily's response.

After Emily denied him she moved to Germany where she fell in love with a rich nobleman named Hans. He got an invitation to their wedding and he was half tempted to go, if anything just to see Emily one more time. Basil ultimately decided against it, sending a gift basket, a letter addressed to Emily wishing her well and a large sum of gold that they didn't even need.

Basil opened his eyes and climbed out, having enough of the water and now too depressed to actually do anything at the moment. Basil dried himself off with a blow dryer and reluctantly put on his casual attire, a white button up shirt, knickers, a brown waist coat, and a brown overcoat. He neglected shoes, maintaining some of his own ideologies on clothes. To cheer himself up, Basil decided to go for a walk around London and so for the first time that morning and for the past three days, Basil left his apartment.

Walking down Baker Street, Basil came upon a familiar face. A very tall man, at least to Basil, of 6'1, this man was dressed very similarly to Basil save that he had a deerstalker hat. This man was none other than Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock looked down at the mouse and greeted him.

"Why if it isn't Basil of Baker Street than my name isn't Sherlock Holmes" Sherlock exclaimed

"Good morning Mr. Holmes" Basil said less enthusiastic than usual, still down from his memories of Emily and the future he almost had.

"Down again are we?" Sherlock continued, "You know what you gotta do when you're down?"

Basil shook his head; he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock Holmes and his question-answer personality. If anything the only thing that Basil was in the mood for was a good drink and perhaps some good company later in the evening.

"Leave me alone" Basil pleaded, "I'm not okay at the moment."

Sherlock huffed in disbelief, "We all have our days Basil" Sherlock said as he walked away, "We just have to decide what we do with them."

Sherlock always knew exactly what to say to cheer the mouse up; Basil knew the only thing that would keep his off things was to get more work. But unfortunately work was slim, at the very least, Basil thought he could help Sherlock with one of his cases.

"Any chance" Basil began rather meekly, "That you might need some help with anything? Any work per say?"

Sherlock looked up in thought and shook his head, "I'm taking holiday Basil" the detective said, "Heading out to Baskerville Manor. Heard it's lovely this time of year, Watson was gracious enough to rent the place out for me."

Basil smiled at the mentioning of Watson, he often thought what he would do if he ever had a friend like Sherlock had Watson. But Basil was alone and Basil would always be alone, at least, that's what he thought.

Basil hung his head and his tail and sadly made his way down Baker Street when he ran another familiar face, Mary Ellen, a mouse like himself and a close friend of Basil's family, particularly his brother. Basil didn't necessarily like his brother Jacob but he liked Mary Ellen. You might even say that he liked her enough that he fantasized, but not overly so or in the creepy way that would classify a stalker or a rapist, for Basil was a respectable mouse and was never that obscene. Basil fantasies were anything but natural for a lonely single male such as he, if anything the one thing that he wanted out of life was a kiss, a loving kiss, not the kind that a friend would give a friend out of gratitude but one shared between lovers as if nothing in the world could mean more to them than to share this one simple thing.

Mary Ellen always wore a blue dress, in a way it complimented Basil's brown suit. She always had a parcel in her hand a bonnet in her hair; her eyes were also blue like oceans of the deep or diamonds shining in the moonlight on a nice summer breeze in the middle of a shimmering lake. I'm over romanticizing for the sake of drama and to get into the mindset of Basil, who was thinking these exact phrases about Mary Ellen's eyes as you are reading this and I am writing. Now Basil, in a stroke of genius or stupidity, decided to speak and he said exactly what was on his mind.

"Why if it isn't Mary Ellen, the girl with the bright blue eyes as deep as the ocean and radiant as shimmering diamonds on a lake. How are we doing today love?"

Mary Ellen did not answer, instead gave Basil the coldest shoulder that the world has ever seen, making Antarctica an ideal summer vacation spot. Basil shook this off to the best of his ability and followed her, well stalked her, now he was stalking her, down the street as Mary Ellen headed towards the market in an attempt to get as far away from Basil as fast as her mouse feet would take her.

Basil caught up to Mary Ellen and grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to turn around and face him. Mary Ellen, upon seeing Basil, huffed in disgust.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice as cold as her shoulder

"I want to see where you're going, where you've been and if I'm in the picture somewhere?" Basil answered rather nervously.

Mary Ellen rolled her eyes and turned back around, keeping her course.

"You're on the very edge of the frame Mr. Basil" she replied; "Now please, I have a lot to do and not a lot of time to talk."

Basil was having none of it; instead he continued following her and patiently waited for an opportunity to continue the conversation.

Basil waited all the way to market to speak again.

"Would you consider going to dinner with me?" Basil asked hopefully, his eyes pleading and face filled with desperation and the laughably sad loneliness of a person who has realized perhaps too late that they need to be living into order to have life.

Basil was basically dead to the community; he never went anywhere, never saw anybody and kept to himself. He was recluse with no money, a famous detective without any work and a train heading off the tracks straight into a ravine. Basil of Baker Street was a person who by most people would say doesn't deserve to have a pulse at all. 'Why bother?' They say 'he won't use it' he's nothing more than a dead body walking around pretending to be alive. A stinking, rotting, slab of pink, fleshy meat that been out for four days and is starting to get flies. A gross, boring and rather stupid attempt to regain life from nothing, if there is anything to be learned from Basil, it's how to act dead while your heart is still beating.

"You're kidding!" Mary Ellen exclaimed, "The only reason I would go out with you is if America collapsed and fell back in the Empire!"

Basil thought about the possibility of America collapsing and for a moment hoped that it would happen, but immediately thought otherwise and interpreted Mary Ellen's answer as a definite no. Basil didn't even try to change her mind for it was obvious that Mary Ellen wasn't interested and never would be. It was just the way things were he supposed. Basil hoped that today, on his birthday no less, that he would find something to make him happy. But alas he did not, and so Basil returned home to his lonely apartment at 22B Baker Street.

Back in his apartment, Basil undressed and went over to a table where he pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He began to write

This is your birthday present, a release from the pain of the world. Happy birthday to me, no one else will say it.

To go through life just living, but not enjoying life in the slightest, breathing for the sake breathing never taking in the air or time to smell the roses. I can only blame myself, for I expected to be famous by now. But fame will never come, for who needs a detective when you have Scotland Yard? Who needs a detective now especially when things have been going so well? Answer to my question: No one.

I am obsolete to everyone, even myself. So I find it fitting that I should go, on this day, April 7th of 1889, my birthday.

Whoever finds this, please, take no time to remember Basil of Baker Street; you will be better for it.

Once that was done Basil set the note on front of the bathroom door. He then undressed and began cleaning house, he wanted to go a respectable mouse and dying in a dirty apartment cluttered with papers and random instruments was not the way to go. Two hours later Basil was done, as a reward to himself he allowed himself an hour of life, he spent this time in the bathroom masturbating, for he wanted to go in full stride. Basil also did this to give himself some time to think about what he about to do, to see if he could talk himself out of it. He could not. Basil, in complete resolve, took three of the heaviest books he could find and placed them on a chair. Basil then found a long piece of string and tied to outer doorknob, taking the other end with him and placing it in the bathtub. Basil picked up the books and walked over to the tub, he slowly submerged himself, grabbing the string on the way. Basil placed the books on his chest and moved his arm towards the wall, closing the bathroom door in the process.

Mrs. Judson, Basil's maid, came up the stairs twenty minutes later with a tray full of tea and a note from Mary Ellen, who after careful consideration and mostly out of pity, agreed to Basil's dinner invitation. Mrs. Judson reached Basil's door only to find it slightly open. Stepping inside the apartment, Mrs. Judson noticed how clean and organized everything was; Basil never kept a clean house. It was then that she saw the bathroom door.

The police and firefighters came in. An axe had to be used to break down the bathroom door, for Basil had locked it and no key could be found. When the door was down, they could only stare in silence. One of the officers, a rat with a mustache like that of Panayot Hitov( a Bulgarian revolutionary) named François Montepercy, a Frenchman with dual citizenship, took down the note from the bathroom door and read it aloud to those present. Montepercy walked out of the room, saying nothing, leaving the others to take care of the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

Montepercy read the note again and immediately went against Basil's wishes, taking pity on him and strove to remember Basil's name. Montepercy figured that the best way of doing that was to look into Basil's personal life, to figure as to why Basil would take such a rash action as taking his own life. Then he remembered on what he heard a long time ago on the issue from a French noble mouse who jumped off a bridge.

"Many people think suicide as a coward's act. I think not. I think it is a brave thing to take one's own life, to deny the world the things you can give just for a lifetime of peace, which is only truly obtained through death. Am I saying silt your throat? No. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying life live well and when you're done living, seek peace and quiet in whatever way you see fit. Death comes for us all eventually; why not help it by giving it a head start?"

This glorified account of the act rang in Montepercy's head, so much so that he couldn't get it out no matter how hard he tried. In a way it was almost beautiful. Walking out on the street, Montepercy tried to calm himself down but he could only think of one thing to do.

Montepercy knew Basil to some degree, for Basil worked with the police force on more than one occasion and Montepercy was the closest officer to him. It saddens me to tell you that Basil's suicide was not a surprise to Montepercy for he often suspected that Basil would do something rash, but then in the words of the nobleman it was a completely reasonable thing for him to do.

The rat walked towards the boarding house where he was currently living. At the moment his neighbor, Doctor Dawson, was just coming in from lunch.

"Pleasant day isn't it Monsieur Montepercy?" Dawson said warmly

"Please" Montepercy began, "Call me Francois."

Dawson made a mental note to himself to call Montepercy by his first name.

"It's almost perfect" Montepercy said aloud but mostly to himself, "To die on such a day as this. Makes you stop and think, what it all means, life and death, what we're here for."

Dawson was extremely confused, having no idea as to what Montepercy was talking about. The rat sighed deeply and slowly climbed the steps inside the building, Dawson followed him. Montepercy made a sharp right into the drawing room, which had a nice couch situated in the middle of it to the right of the bay style window that looked out into the street. The drawing room itself was an octagon shape, a fern was in the upper right corner of the room, directly opposite it was a grand piano. The drawing easel was in the lower left corner next to the window. The floor of the drawing room was a dark green, the walls a chestnut brown.

Montepercy sat on the couch and ran his paws through his fur; he cried and looked at Basil's note again and again, taking in the mouse's final words.

"Basil of Baker Street" Montepercy said to himself, "the greatest mouse the Kingdom ever had. Gone. He believed that life had meaning but that he either could not find it or he was undeserving of it."

"I'm sorry?" Dawson replied confused, "What's going on?"

Montepercy shook his head; he supposed there was no point in hiding it. So he went ahead and said it just as it was. "Basil is dead."

Dawson was surprised at this but not as surprised as you would think, for Dawson did not know Basil personally, only hearing about him in the papers and local legend. In a way Dawson supposed, he expected Basil to be this unobtainable thing, the golden standard that few ever really achieve in life. If Basil was the golden standard than Dawson didn't want it, for he would be dead.

"Did you know him well?" Montepercy asked curiously

Dawson shook his head, "Not particularly. I only met him this morning, he was peculiar but I never suspected suicidal. What do you make of it?"

Montepercy shrugged, he had his own ideas as to the reasoning behind Basil's suicide but he kept to himself for the moment.

"I don't know Dawson" Montepercy answered, "Perhaps there's nothing to it. Whatever the case maybe I shall deny him his last request. I refuse to forget-"

Montepercy stood up and looked around as if he were before a grand audience instead of just Dawson. Dawson understood this, for it was only natural for Montepercy to look around as if he searching for something to try and make sense of things.

"Basil of Baker Street will be remembered. From what I knew of him he was a great mouse, the stories and legends if they hold any truth make it even more so. I will not rest until his life is known to the people, for it had more merit than most."

Dawson was confused as to why Montepercy said this, for Montepercy only knew Basil in passing and with the few cases that he collaborated with the police. Otherwise, Montepercy knew nothing about Basil; he had no idea if he was a good mouse or if he did anything that was told in the stories or legends. The only thing that Montepercy had was Basil's last words and the stories and legend written in countless newspaper articles.

Montepercy stood up for he remembered that there were some things that he had to do in his apartment, he shook Dawson's paw and headed upstairs without another word. It was as if he were thinking on a deep and contemplating issue as if for a moment Montepercy had become Basil.

Opening the door to his apartment he was greeted with the rush of feet on hardwood floor as his daughter, Josephine, bolted towards him and hugged his neck.

"Daddy" she cried happily, "You're home early!"

Montepercy laughed, "Yes love, I'm home. And I'm going to be for a very long time."

Josephine's eyes lit up at this, for she knew what this meant. Montepercy smiled, for his daughter's eyes were radiant of the sun; her smile was as white as the sand in Deauville. At hearing the words, "And I'm going to be for a very long time" Josephine ran towards the back of the apartment and appeared moments later with Montepercy's wife, Annabelle. Annabelle, a Britain native, was one of the kindest mice in all of London; she would have seven children with Montepercy and after his death in saving 20 mice from a book depository fire she would marry Louis Don Claude, a nobleman and with him would have five more children.

"Annabelle my love" Montepercy exclaimed, "Are you packed and ready?"

Annabelle nodded, "Yes dear. Everything's ready."

Montepercy smiled and kissed her on the cheek, "Excellent!" he said elastically, "We leave tomorrow at daybreak. Oh you'll love Paris, it's simply wonderful. You know there's a reason why they call it the City of Love and Lights."

Annabelle rolled her eyes; "Yes" she said feigning sarcasm, "So they say."

Montepercy walked into the bedroom to change into more comfortable attire. Josephine looked up at her mother.

"Mama" she began, "When is Daddy going to tell me about his day?"

Annabelle looked back towards the bedroom, "Francois!" she yelled, "Your daughter wants to know how your day was!"

Montepercy appeared dressed in a suit similar to Basil's only his was blue.

"Of course my dear" he said as he crouched down beckoning his daughter to him, "How could I forget?"

Josephine ran into her father's arms and upon doing so kissed his cheek. Montepercy stood up and carried his daughter with him into the living room, sitting down in an armchair that was up against a window that looked out to the street.

"Well today started out like every other day" Montepercy began, "But with a twist. I discovered a mouse who was reading a book, The Final Problem by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

Josephine nodded for she knew the book. Montepercy nodded in turn and continued his account of the day, making sure to make it age appropriate; he saw no reason to hide his job from his daughter for the sooner she figured how things worked, the easier it would be, at least in Montepercy's mind. Annabelle disagreed but said nothing for she did as she was told and let Montepercy have his way, keeping her mouth shut, but her eyes and ears open.


	3. Masterpiece

Masterpiece

The rain pitter-patters on the roof of the restaurant, singing its sweet medley. Remy was sitting in the kitchen on top of the old cast iron pot that belonged in the former Gusteau restaurant; it was the only thing that he kept from the old place. Everything else was new. The pot had significant meaning to him, for it was on this pot that Linguini discovered him throwing spices in the soup, it was this pot that started it all.

A bell ringed on the other side of the kitchen, the sound that another order had been taking up, dashing over to it, Remy looked at the slip that had the shorthand for the meal written on it and instantly began working. It was the restaurant special, Ratatouille-again.

Remy did not mind cooking the special, but he wouldn't mind if someone ordered something else. As Remy worked he thought about his life and where he would from here. He had often thought about family, he had no left but Emile, his father Django dying shortly after his dream became a reality. Remy remembered his father's last words to him, they were simple but sometimes the simplest of things stay with you the longest and for Remy this was exactly the case.

"Don't live life because you have to. Don't live to breathe, to have a beating heart or a working brain. That's how you live. But living for the sake of living is meaningless; you have to live life well. Go, live life well."

This phrase, Live Life Well, Remy put in a plaque and hung it above the kitchen door into the main room so that he would always remember what it was he was supposed to do. The only problem was that Remy had no idea how to do it and by wondering how, Remy failed to listen to his father's advice.

When Remy was finished with the ratatouille, Linguini came in to take the food to the table, just as Linguini left Remy heard a knock on the window. Looking towards it he expected to see Emile, for he always came at this hour for dinner, what he found was something else entirely.

In place of Emile was a small female robin, a child-old enough to know the dangers of the world but still young enough and naive enough to go looking for trouble, afraid and unashamed at the same time. Her right leg was injured from Remy's position it appeared to be broken, in addition to this a large cut was down her face. Remy could hear the robin breathing heavily, trying desperately to stay warm in the cold rain. Remy opened the window.

The robin stared at Remy and hobbled to the best of her ability towards him, Remy said nothing, curiosity and pity rendering him speechless. Remy was reminded of his childhood and how he would constantly talk to birds, or at least attempt to talk to birds, by using various chirps and whistles. He did not attempt to communicate this way at the moment, his mouth refusing to cooperate with what his brain was telling him to do.

The robin reached him and brought her head against Remy's chest, the rest of her body was still on the windowsill. Remy was frozen, unsure of what it was he should do. He said nothing and did nothing; it was as time stood still for a brief moment.

Gusteau appeared.

"Ah, how is my protégé?" Gusteau said in greeting, "Well I hope?"

Remy nodded and gestured towards the robin

"A robin" Gusteau exclaimed, "How strange?"

Gusteau looked the robin over intently, inspecting every detail as if she were a dish about to be served to a customer.

"You must care for her Remy" Gusteau said promptly, "Do what you will. But might I make a suggestion?"

Remy nodded and waited for Gusteau to continue, but before he could answer Linguini walked in the kitchen causing time to move once again and for Remy to jolt himself from the dreamlike state he was in.

"Lil' Chef" Linguini called, "We've got some big orders coming in."

Remy laid the robin down on the counter ignoring Linguini, whatever order it was it could wait, this was too important. Remy rushed to the other side of the kitchen and grabbed two of his custom made dish rags and a wooden spoon. Scurrying back over to the robin, Remy took one of the rags and made a makeshift splint with the spoon, wrapping it as tight as he could around the robin's leg.

Linguini moved over to see what it was that Remy was doing, when he saw the robin he simply stared, for Remy was completely engrossed, working mechanically bringing her water, bits of food and even his own pillow for her to rest her head on. Remy's behavior was unlike anything that Linguini had ever seen before, it was feverish, fast paced and yet controlled as if he knew what he was doing yet Remy's face seemed to be lost, for it displayed no clear emotion other than thinking about the next steps in caring for the bird.

The bell next to the kitchen door rang again; it was Mustafa, the head waiter at the restaurant. Just as he was about to speak Linguini shoved him out of the kitchen and then he himself made a quick exit to give Remy time to think and to be alone with the robin.

Remy was carrying a piece of cheese in his mouth, running on all fours across the countertop. When he got to the robin he sat the cheese next to her and began feeding it. Eventually he was rested enough to speak.

"So what happened?" Remy asked curiously, "You fall out of a tree or something?"

The robin shook her head, "Evangeline, my name is Evangeline."

Remy nodded; embarrassed that he had forgotten the simple formalities done between the first meeting of two strangers.

"Remy" he replied, "Just Remy, can't stand being called Monsieur."

"Oh" the robin said curiously, "And what is that?"

Remy shrugged, he honestly had no idea. He assumed it was something that his father taught him long ago, or perhaps he got it from Emile. Either way, it made little difference, what was important was that Remy was just Remy, nothing else.

Several seconds of silence passed without either of them saying a word, it wasn't an awkward silence, for they had plenty to say, they just didn't know how to say it. Remy eventually started the conversation back up again.

"What were you doing out there?" Remy asked as he leaned up against the pot nonchalantly

"Looking for my father" Evangeline replied, "he went looking for mama a few days ago. He hasn't come back yet and I was getting worried."

Remy stared at the broken leg and the scar, Evangeline turned away, partly out of embarrassment and partly out of pain. Remy immediately reached for the water bowl that he had set up but Evangeline stopped him with a raise of her wing.

"What can I do to help you?" Remy asked, "Do you need anything, a place to stay...food...water? Anything, said the word and it's yours."

Evangeline stared at him, a confused look on his face, "Won't the manager be upset-"

Remy stopped her this time, "I am the manager" he said warmheartedly, "This is my restaurant, La Ratatouille."

Evangeline laughed, it was not the kindhearted laugh but it wasn't a sarcastic or hurtful one either. It was the laugh of uncertainty and disbelief that comes when you are standing in the face of the impossible and by staring at the impossible, the impossible becomes possible.

Remy stood silently and simply nodded, he was obviously hurt, but he knew that it wasn't her fault for he was the only rat in Paris, in the entire world, who owned a restaurant. He had a lot to live up to, the consequence of failure was immense for as almost as soon as the restaurant opened he became an overnight celebrity in both human and rodent communities. It was nothing new to hear Evangeline's laugh, for he had heard it many times, but for some reason, this time above all others, was different.

"I'm serious" Remy continued, "This really is my restaurant and I am both manager and head chef. I'm sorry if I seem impossible to you but here it is black and white right in front of you. If I was you I wouldn't be making fun of me, I'm the only one around here who's A: able to understand you and B: who has enough money to take care of you properly. So unless you want to take your chances on the street I suggest you stop laughing."

Evangeline stopped laughing and hung her head, almost instantaneously Remy felt as if he was being too hard.

"I'm sorry" Remy said apologetically, "But please understand. I've been facing ridicule my whole life. Everyone is telling me that I can't be what I was born to be. I'm a cook. It's what I know; it's what I'm good at. I know this and I know at least some people know it. But it would nice, just for a moment that the world knew."

Evangeline did her best to sit up, "Why do you need the opinion of the world?" she asked, "I mean you already have it."

Remy nodded for he knew what she was talking about, for his friends and what family he had left had become not just his world but his universe.

"You have a point" Remy replied

Evangeline nodded and began eating a scone that Remy had made earlier.

"This is really good" Evangeline said through a mouthful of food, "What's it called?"

Remy did a small laugh, for it literally was just a scone, not everything had a fancy name. Although now, he supposed that he had a name for it.

"Angie's Dish" Remy replied, "A scone drizzled in light butter with a side of berries, a strand of honey and a complementary key to the spare room upstairs."

Evangeline noticed that the scone she was eating had butter and honey on it; she also noticed a plate of berries, strawberries and blueberries to be exact in a bowl next to her. Remy produced a room key and set it next to the bowl.

"Anything you need" Remy said as he walked away, "Just call."

"Daddy used to call me that" Evangeline whispered, "He said I was his Little Angie. I miss him."

It made Remy's heart break that one so small could lose something so important at such an age. It didn't seem possible but he knew better, Remy lost his own mother when he was but a day old, his father singlehandedly raising them with the occasional assistance of the some of the female rat in the clan who were old enough to produce milk.

Remy scurried off to the other side of the room, leaving Angie, as Evangeline will now be called, to herself. The robin soon fell asleep; when it was time for closing Remy personally saw to it that she was brought to the spare room upstairs, he stayed with her throughout the night becoming a stone guardian refusing to move unless it was of the upmost importance and even then in the extreme cases. Of course there were none to be had that night, the only sound was the sound of the rain against the window as the wind picked up, the pitter-patter turning into an unforgiving and violent symphony of water, thunder and the occasional strike of lightning.


End file.
